


The Dragon's Door

by WaitingForTheMoon2



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluffy Ending, OTP Feels, One Shot, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-26 00:29:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18272150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForTheMoon2/pseuds/WaitingForTheMoon2
Summary: This is a one-shot series of vignettes where I explore Jon's reaction to three different events: Targ parentage reveal, Targ Baby revelation and finally the birth of Baby Targ.Warning, Jon is at peak broody/angsty in the beginning :)Thanks for reading!





	The Dragon's Door

All was quiet in Winterfell as Jon latched the chamber door behind him. It was near the hour of the wolf when Davos sent him away from their defense preparations. More cheval de fraises, more fortifications to be dug, more dragonglass to be worked. There was never enough: Never enough men, never enough defenses, never enough time.

“It will still be here come sunrise,” Davos had said as the candles extinguished themselves. Faint wisps of smoke crept across a table strewn with Jon’s final preparations. The Noth’s death rattle against an enemy that never tired. “Get some rest.” Jon had nodded and turned to leave though he knew rest would not come.

An empty bedchamber sprawled before him, though in truth he hadn’t slept there since his return to Winterfell. He wondered if she struggled against the emptiness of her chamber across the castle; wondered if she reached out in the darkness for him. Jon sighed and made toward the humble glow of a hearth that had long since burned its brightest. He unlaced his tunic, then trousers and slid into the cold, hard bed.

Despite his best efforts, rest would not come. Though words were wind these words would not stop from howling across his mind. He pressed against them, they were relentless still. “ _You should be king…,”_ they wailed. _Rhaegar. Lyanna._ It was futile. The words Sam spoke to him in the crypts haunted him. Stalked him like a wolf. Reluctantly Jon sat up, rubbing the nape of his neck. Silver moonlight flooded the chamber now, cloaking it in a ghostly pall.

Over the past fortnight upon their arrival at Winterfell, though his days were spent navigating squabbling northern lords, his nights had been spent worshipping Daenerys Targaryen. He was unsure ever a goddess was so revered, so exalted, so loved. It did not matter if his sisters or the petty lords mistrusted her intentions, he knew in time they would see her for what she was. She did not have to pledge herself to the plight of the north. _None of them saw the dragon fall from the sky._ Frustrated, Jon pushed himself from the bed and padded towards a table where a jug of ale sat and poured himself a goblet. It was piss warm but necessary and he forced down a mouthful. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he let his eyes linger on the door. Doorways. His entire life had changed with doorways.

First, at Castle Black when he walked through the door and out into the yard where he was met with cold steel and blackness. In the darkness of his chamber, he tried to remember the death of his body but could only remember the lonely howl of Ghost and the face of the boy who drove the final blade. After his resurrection, Jon could still feel the phantom blades slice through him. But it wasn’t just his body that had died then. It was his belief in a purpose and his hope for a future. When he had fought at Winterfell, as he lay beneath the mound of bodies that promised to crush him, to finish him for good, something compelled him to rise. It was not until he faced the second doorway did he understand what force drove him through the mass-- reborn once more with purpose.

The second doorway reduced him to near a craven because knew that as soon as it opened he would be irredeemably hers. One unbroken gaze, a single step through the threshold and it all became clear to Jon: that in his quest to save Westeros from the Long Night, he could allow himself not only to want something but to love _someone_. In the stillness that followed the first time he took Daenerys, as her chest ebbed and rose quietly beside him, he thought of Maester Aemon’s words: “What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms . . . Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.” That night, and a hundred times afterward, he found himself at Dany’s doorway: Seeking her, making love to her, choosing her.

Love, glory, and tragedy. He took another sip of his ale awash in self-pity. “And what of our love,” he spoke into the still chamber. “Lies.” The words turned to ash in his mouth for he knew the love he bore Dany was the single truth he had left. Son Rhaegar or Ned, _none of it matters,_ he thought. He knew he would not survive to see the Spring, and as he went for another gulp he was met with the bottom of the goblet. More than anything Jon felt like tearing the door from its hinges and seeking out Daenerys. He wanted to take her, to crash his mouth into hers, to taste her, to tell her none of it mattered and bury himself in her once more… He took a step for the doorway but fell short. He could not bring himself to open it.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With all the force he could muster, Jon battered in the feeble door.

“Where is she,” he cried. The room was dark, lit only by a few smoldering candles. Jon’s body throbbed at his side where he’d been sliced, and his hair had fallen in wet ringlets about his bloody face. Through the dim, he could make out Jorah Mormont, himself bloodied and horror-struck.

“Here,” the old bear croaked. From the corner, Jon heard the rip of fabric. As he moved closer the shape of Missandei came forward from the darkness, her eyes wide with terror as she made makeshift tourniquets from an old bedsheet. Hurriedly, panic-stricken, and through stifled tears, the handmaiden tore strip after strip. It was then that Jon’s eyes found Daenerys atop the rickety bed, her white furs stained blood red from shoulder to navel. Jon lunged forward, Longclaw falling to the floor with a clatter, gathered the fur collar in his hands, and split her coat in two. The wound--situated at the shoulder--was deep and in the candlelight, dark purple blood seeped forth.

“What happened,” Jon’s voice quavered as he attempted to steady his hands and tore away the rest of Daenerys’ coat. Her breasts and stomach scarcely rose and fell, though Jon’s eyes stayed on the wound.

“An arrow,” Jorah rasped. “She tried to stay atop Drogon…” his gravelly voice wavered as he swallowed the remainder of the sentence. Jon quelled the rage that grew in his chest to find the shooter and slice him from navel to nape as Missandei produced the tourniquets at his side. Inhaling, Jon methodically and unwaveringly, began to dress Daenerys’ wound. But despite his best efforts, the blood could not be contained and desperation took hold of him.

“You’re trembling, my lord,” Missandei knelt beside Jon, her own face salt-streaked, and began to guide his hands as she delicately crafted a knot. “We need yarrow,” she whispered. “To help the bleeding. Ser Jorah, search the stores of the home. Anything. Ride for Winterfell if you must. We cannot move her.” Jon looked to Jorah. The old bear was immobilized, his eyes fixed upon Daenerys, his face awash with worry. Jon followed Ser Jorah’s gaze, his eyes settling upon what old bear could not look away from. At the base of Daenerys stomach, a small swelling had settled, no larger than a sweet summer plum. Jon looked to Missandei, her eyes welling with tears once more.

“When,” the word had barely escaped Jon, his throat constricting with every breath. 

“For certain a fortnight ago. Around the time…” Missandei glanced away, her eyes unwilling to meet Jon’s.

“...When we parted,” Jon sighed, letting his eyes close briefly. With a tender, trembling hand he placed his palm atop the little mound at the base of Daenerys’ stomach. “Dany,” he whispered. Almost a prayer. He had spurned the woman he loved out of self-pity. Out of sheer foolishness. For weeks she had silently endured this burden, and still, she fought beside the North. Razing the Army of the Dead as she went, putting herself, her dragons and now, Jon realized, the life of their unborn child in danger with no assurance of survival… All because she had made a promise to destroy the Night King and his army. “If I had known…” Jon took Daenerys’ face in his hands. “I could have kept her safe. This is all my fault.”

“She would have fought no matter how many convincing words were said, my lord,” Missandei murmured. Jon knew she was right. Leaning forward trepidatiously, Jon laid a kiss on Daenerys’ forehead. Beneath him, two eyelashes fluttered and gently opened.

“Jon?”

“I’m here,” Jon planted another kiss, this time atop her lips. It was salty and sweet. Dany’s mouth tenderly parted under his, a faint cry escaping her. Jon pulled back, the burden of it all suddenly feeling weightless. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”

A faint smile grew across Dany’s face. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leaning against the doorway, Jon stared in wonder at his wife and son, the latter cradled against his mother’s breast, his head of black hair barely visible among the furs. That day Dany’s anguished cries echoed through the cavernous halls of Dragonstone as a winter storm raged without. Jon had plunged his fist through the Night King’s heart, had flown a dragon, had stared down death itself but until that day he had never truly known fear. He stepped into the chamber cautiously, not wanting to disturb the two.

“Enter,” Dany called out softly, not looking up from their son. He reached the bed and perched at its side, leaning toward the two. With an outstretched hand, Jon gently touched the babe’s hair, letting the downy tufts slide beneath his fingers. Dany finally looked up from Jaehaerys, who dozed peacefully in his mother's arms.

“He’s perfect,” Jon sighed with a smile on his lips. He leaned towards Dany, their foreheads lingered together for a moment, their mouths finally meeting. Jon let his hands wander upwards towards her breasts, letting the fullness of them settle into his palms. Motherhood had given Daenerys a new body and he was eager to explore.

“Ahem,” Dany pulled back, cocking her right eyebrow and glanced down at Jaehaerys. “The baby,” she whispered. Jon couldn’t help but smile at this new modesty.

“Alright,” Jon said, half a laugh. “Let me take him, you need rest.” With all the uncertainty of a new father, Jon reached out and scooped up his son, cradling his head carefully and then tucking him into the nook of his arm. “He’s so small,” he said, brushing a tiny black curl behind Jaehaerys’ ear.

He had not allowed himself to ever dream such a moment. So terrified at the thought of having a family of his own someday, Jon struck out on his own, vowing to never father children. But that Jon was gone and in his stead rose a man who deemed himself worthy of happiness at long last. Whether he was Aegon Targaryen or Jon Snow, it made no matter. Words were wind, and he had found his truth. 


End file.
